


Lesson Learned

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Contest Entry, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John just gets caught in the middle, M/M, Mycroft does not approve, Punklock, Sherlock doesn't care, fuckyeahteenlock, it's a teenlock fic, really just an excuse for cute, someone getting beaten up, they've got a certain charm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is willing to accept almost any case. When he's approached by fellow student John Watson and asked to investigate Harry Watson's "new friends", he never expected how this much one case could change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This is an entry for fuckyeahteenlock's [Punklock Contest](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/44544524621/fuckyeahteenlocks-punklock-contest-our-second). I'm not sure it came out quite as punk as I was intending, but yeah.
> 
> ETA: Lesson Learned came in [second place](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/47207999265/2nd-place-winner-lesson-learned-by-sailorchibi) in the contest. Not bad for a first try.

_"You - you're him, aren't you? That detective bloke. The one who says he can solve anything. Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"Yes, that's me."_

_"I thought so, I've seen you around before. Well. How much do you charge?"_

_"That depends on what sort of case you're bringing to me. And I can assure you, John Watson, that while I may be_ young _I am more than capable of solving whatever problem you've got."_

_"Wait, how did you know my name?"_

_"We've attended the same school since we were children. Rather silly of me not to know by now, don't you think?"_

_"Oh. Right. Right, yes, I'm - err, well the thing is I'm a little concerned about my sister. She's got mixed up with some people and I don't really think - I. You know what, this was a bad idea."_

_"Sit down, Watson. No one needs to know that you were here. Your sister certainly won't have heard it from me. And since, from the sound of it, you've brought me something more interesting than the frankly pedantic sort of cases most people do, I suppose I should tell you that you're right. Your girlfriend is planning to break up with you, and soon. She's been cheating on you for the past two months, though your relationship has been having issues for quite some time before that. She's in love with the idea of dating a doctor, you see, but not at all sure about your fascination with the army. I'd advise you to break it off with her before she has the chance. She'll make it a public display."_

_"How did you - that was... Okay. Okay, this is what I know."_

\--

On the morning of February 1st, Sherlock Holmes got out of bed and began to dress. He had not been sleeping, of course, and one look at his bed would be enough for even the stupidest of the people he surrounded himself with to realize that: his bed was liberally covered with books, leaving only a slender space in the middle where Sherlock had lain for most of the night. He had been thinking about the morning and what it was going to bring, and his rising excitement over the plan he was going to implement had made it a very long night indeed. 

He was careful, methodical, as he showered and did his hair and make-up. A careful study during the past three days gave him a confident touch as he applied lipstick and eyeliner with more ease than most sixteen-year-old girls. The natural pallor of his skin meant he did not need to use any face paint; the dark liner and lipstick made his face look ashen. It was not an appealing look in his opinion, but then Sherlock had never much cared for appearances. He got dressed and clomped downstairs in thick, heavy boots that would make it nearly impossible to sneak up on anyone in. Annoying, considering the circumstances his cases usually leant themselves to, but necessary.

Even had it not been for the case, the extra care he had taken while dressing would've been worthwhile just to see the look on Mycroft's face. His brother looked as though he had swallowed his lemon, lips twisting and eyes squinting, and Sherlock had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from emerging as Mycroft said, "Sherlock, I hope you are not planning on going outside dressed like that."

"Since you insist on my attending that ridiculous institution, yes I am," Sherlock replied, bypassing the breakfast table entirely. He had no intention on actually going to school, of course. The case would be taking him to the local uni, and might require him missing as much as two weeks of school if things went as planned. It was hard to say who would be more pleased about that, Sherlock, the teachers or his classmates.

"I suppose this is for one of your _cases_ ," Mycroft said with an air of long suffering. "When will you learn that there is no such thing as a consulting detective? You would be much better off to apply yourself, Sherlock. There are some openings in the government that I think you would fit quite well into."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly and shifted the black belt around his waist for extra emphasis. "About the same time that you learn that five pastries do not make a healthy breakfast," he retorted, and sailed out the door before Mycroft had the opportunity to respond. 

The morning was crisp and clear, if chilly, and made all the better by the blond rugby player waiting at the end of the lane. Sherlock examined John Watson briefly as he approached, noting the obvious signs of fatigue in John's face that had not let up since their initial meeting. John's schoolwork was starting to suffer, he’d noted over the past month, and he'd had an argument with his parents this morning - no, with his father. Possibly over his sister, more likely over the break up with his girlfriend. That had been three weeks ago, and it was just about time for John's father to have noticed. He still found it fascinating that, instead of trying to punch Sherlock in the face, John had actually followed through on his advice and broke it off with that annoying girl Sarah.

John's jaw dropped as Sherlock approached, and it took him several seconds before he gathered himself together enough to be able to speak. "Good morning," he said weakly, looking flustered.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. "We agreed that you did not want anyone to see us together, especially today." They’d been over this several times. He looked at John for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze and wondered if John knew that Mycroft was in the house. Probably not.

"Yes, I know, but -" John shrugged and half-turned, his hand squeezing restlessly around the strap of his bag. "I was worried."

"I've already told you I should be able to find proof to extract your sister before anything happens -"

"About you, you git!" John interrupted, rolling his eyes. There was a faint smile on his face, suggesting he was not as exasperated as he seemed, but he did not meet Sherlock's gaze. "I don't feel right sending you in there all by yourself. What if something goes wrong and they find you out?"

Uncertain as to whether or not this was an insult towards his acting skills - surely John couldn't actually be concerned for his health? - Sherlock merely stared at him for a tense minute. "I will be fine," he said at last.

“I know, because I’m going with you.”

Sherlock huffed. John would not fit in, he knew. Even if they were to try and find him the right clothing, he looked too wholesome, too sweet, with his warm blue eyes and shy smile. Not to mention Harry would spot her brother immediately, thus ruining any opportunity for Sherlock to figure out what was going on. “You can’t. Do you want me to find out more about these people your sister is hanging out with or not?”

John looked torn. “I do, but…”

“Then you will need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

The silence dragged for a handful of minutes before John sighed. “Alright. Alright, fine, you win. Just - if something goes wrong, you can text me. I - be careful, okay?”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Sherlock said confidently.

\--

_“So how do you think you’ll go about this? I’ve been thinking about it myself. And I’m not sure how you’re going to - what, what is it? Why are you staring at me like that?”_

_“Why are you sitting there?”_

_“Why am I - what, is there a law against sitting next to someone at lunch? No one will tell Harry. She barely pays attention to me, never mind anyone else who's not in uni.”_

_“People are staring at you.”_

_“Oh. Oh, yeah, I guess they are.”_

_“You don’t care.”_

_“That people are staring? It bothers me a little, but I - you get used to it. After a while.”_

_“I suppose you’re referring to -”_

_“Don’t, Holmes, yeah? Bit not good.”_

_“You don’t even know what I was going to say. And don’t call me Holmes. My name is Sherlock.”_

_“Right, well, I may not be as brilliant as you, but I can still guess.”_

_“I…”_

_“Now eat your lunch, Sherlock, and tell me what you've got planned.”_

\--

He woke up with a splitting headache. The pain was radiating out from a point on the back of his head, and he could feel sticky damp on his neck. Sherlock exhaled quietly and took stock of the rest of his body - ankles tied with rope, hands cuffed, bruising around his ribs and belly - before he opened his eyes and lifted his head. Through a wave of dizziness, he caught of Harry Watson’s wide green eyes. She’d been gagged, her lips stretched grotesquely around cotton, and when she saw she was awake she started to cry again. Her make-up was already streaked from tears, and her badly dyed black hair was flopping into her face with every weak tremble of her shoulders.

“Alright?” Sherlock muttered, the word tasting foreign on his lips. He couldn’t recall ever asking someone that before, except he knew John would want him to make sure. “Are you alright?”

Harry nodded quickly and made a muffled sound deep in her throat. She was likely trying to speak, but it was impossible to understand what she was trying to say.

He ignored her for the moment and looked around instead. They were in a small room, a closet, and he couldn’t hear anything aside from the combined sound of their breathing. His memories of how they had come to be here were fuzzy at best: he remembered saying good-bye to John that morning, knowing that it could be two weeks before he was able to speak to him again - or more, if John never wanted to speak to him again - and coming to the university, finding Harry and her friends, planning the best way to stage an introduction. But his mind failed him after that: he thought he recalled being invited to a party, but he wasn’t certain.

“Is there anyone else here?” he asked her, and she shook her head. “Do you know that for certain, or are you just guessing?”

Harry hesitated for a long time before shrugging. Just guessing, then. 

It was exasperating, this communication by gestures. “I’m going to try to take your gag off. Hold still.” He pulled his knees up to his chest, wincing at the stiffness, and braced his shoulders against the wall as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. One step and the room tilted, turning dark at the corner of his eyes, and Sherlock blinked rapidly.

She voiced a questioning sound.

“I’m fine.” Uncertainly, he moved towards her. She was sitting against the wall like he had been, and the room was small enough that a handful of steps left him standing in front of her. His hands were tied behind his back, which meant untying the gag would be awkward. He half-twisted and wiggled his hands pointedly, and Harry seemed to understand his intention because she scooted forward and turned her head until his fingers came into contact with the cotton.

It was tedious trying to pick the knots apart, and he closed his eyes in an effort to better picture them. Doing so made the dizziness worse, and he braced his shoulder against the wall to keep from losing balance. Sweat trickled down his forehead, palms growing moist, and it made the cotton slippery and damp. He swore quietly, blinking his eyes open. The room was illuminated only by a single bare bulb hanging far above their heads, but it seemed almost painfully bright. Harry whimpered behind him, and he wanted to tell to be quiet because the noise was grating on his ears. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not when the knots finally gave under his nails.

“Thank bloody god,” Harry gasped, breathing heavily and _noisily_. Sherlock turned around to glare at her and nearly tipped over. He decided it would be a better idea to sit down and so he did. Hard. Harry didn’t seem to notice. She cleared her throat several times and then said, “Thanks for that. I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping voluntarily,” Sherlock snapped. 

“No, suppose you weren’t. They hit you pretty hard.”

He was not going to admit that he didn’t know what she was talking about. It didn’t matter. Harry squinted at him and then smirked.

“You don’t even know, do you? Look, in the future when you’re trying to go all undercover, you might want to do a better job of fitting in. You had the outfit right…” She looked him over critically “well, for the most part. But god, I can’t remember the last time I heard someone with such a rich boy accent trying to go punk. I mean, _please_. They knew something was up right away.”

Sherlock was suddenly relieved for the poor lighting for an entirely different reason. He knew he was blushing, more from anger than embarrassment. 

“Anyway, James decided to do something about. He had Seb wallop you up the side of the head, and when I protested they tied me up and left me here too.” She looked mutinous. The crying girl from before was certainly gone. “I had a shot with Clara Higgins, you interfering bastard. Wait until I get a hold of my brother. I’m going to kill him.”

“You knew,” Sherlock muttered, realizing that John - always an open book in some telling ways - must have somehow given them away.

Harry rolled her eyes. "Of course I bloody well knew! I _told_ John that I could handle myself, that I knew exactly what I was getting into. I'm not one of his little strays; I don't need him trying to look out for me all the damn time. I was doing fantastic before you lot decided to get up in my business, and now look where we've ended up!" She squirmed around, as though trying to emphasize the fact that she was bound tightly and not at all impressed with how the situation had turned out. "There was nothing wrong with my friends."

It occurred to Sherlock to wonder what kind of friends would knock you out and leave you tied up in a closet. But since he wasn't the foremost expert on sentiment or friendship, he decided to let her comment go. He could tell that Harry's friends hadn't been planning to return, and his clothing must have been stripped of anything useful when they tied him up - he was missing his phone, keys, wallet and the personalized set of lock picks that he usually carried with him everywhere. That meant that all he and Harry could do was wait. He closed his eyes in frustration and banged his head lightly against the wall, not caring about the resulting jolt of dizziness. 

If Mycroft had to rescue him, Sherlock would _never_ live this down.

\--

_"So you're Sherlock's newest acquisition. Tell me, Mr Watson, why is it that you've taken to following my brother around like a lost puppy?"_

_"Shut up, Mycroft."_

_"I'm only professing an interest in my brother, and surely the boy can speak for himself, Sherlock."_

_"Yes, I can, thanks. I'm not - I'm not sure what you're thinking, but Sherlock and I are friends."_

_"Friends. Oh, I see. You've brought him a case. Supporting him with this consulting detective business, are you? I suppose I should tell you now that my family does not approve of Sherlock's ideas about his future. My parents would especially not appreciative of anyone who was actively encouraging him."_

_"Mycroft!"_

_"It's okay, Sherlock."_

_"No, it's not._ Get out _, Mycroft."_

 _"This business won't go anywhere, Sherlock. It is best that you learn this now, before you get yourself or anyone else hurt. Mr Watson, it would probably be in your best interests if you stopped tagging along behind my brother. He tends to find himself in situations that the average person is not equipped to handle. And you are quite..._ average _, are you not?"_

_"Bastard! I can't believe he would say something like that when all he ever does is sit behind a desk and tell people what to do, where's the fun in that - honestly, I wish my brother would stop sticking his fat nose in where it doesn't belong. I am going to be a consulting detective regardless of what he says! Harry is just one case of many to come, right John?"_

_"John?"_

_"Hmm? Oh, yes. Right."_

\--

Sherlock first became conscious of the footsteps outside the door about two hours after he initially woke up. Harry had drifted off to sleep about twenty minutes ago, apparently so unconcerned with whether or not they would be rescued that she was snoring. Loudly. The sound was pressing so badly against Sherlock's head that he was tempted to turn around and kick her hard to shut her up, even if it would mean another few minutes of the world spinning. He repressed the urge when he heard them, noting that they paused before resuming several times as though the person making them kept stopping to listen. There was an equal chance that it could be Harry's so-called friends or Mycroft. He wasn't sure which he would prefer less.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?"

John. Sherlock's heart flipped over at the sound of the unexpected third choice. "John!" he called as loudly as he could, wincing. "John, in here. In the closet."

More footsteps, running now, growing closer. "In there?" John called out, and his hands impacted with the door, a soft thud that was welcome in spite of the lanced darts that flashed through Sherlock's head. "The door is locked. Hang on, I'll see if I can find a key or something to break it down with." He backed away and Sherlock heard him moving back down the hall.

It was equally unexpected, this jolt of _no wait John come back don't leave me here_ , an irrational flood of panic that had him shifting uneasily. He swallowed around the urge to call out, forcing himself to wait patiently. John would come back, of course he would. But it seemed to take an extremely long time before he did, long enough that Sherlock was fairly certain he had nearly passed out from not breathing in an effort to strain his ears to listen He inhaled deeply at the first rattling crack against the door and closed his eyes, turning his head away.

"What the -" Harry said, jerking awake. Her eyes were wide with astonishment as she watched the door steadily being broken down by her younger brother, who was wielding an axe. John struck the door smoothly, his face grim with determination and his shoulders hunched with effort. In less than five minutes, he had cut down enough of the door that he could push his way through.

"Harry, Sherlock, god, are you two alright?" he asked worriedly, casting the axe aside and hurrying over to Sherlock. His fingers sank into Sherlock's curls and searched for the wound to assess the damage. Even John's light touch hurt, and Sherlock couldn't help wincing. 

"I'm fine," said Harry, watching this with a raised eyebrow. "Where the hell did you find that axe?"

"It was in a storage closet down the hall with all kinds of other tools. I don't know how to pick locks, so it seemed like the easiest thing to use," John replied, never looking away from Sherlock. His hands left Sherlock's hair and tilted his chin up so that he could inspect Sherlock's face. "You're in the old building, you know? Sherlock texted me about three hours ago - sorry it took me so long to get here." He sounded strangely frantic, breathless, and Sherlock tried not to imagine his panic over the realization that something had gone wrong after all.

"Apology accepted, at least for that. Now d'you mind untying us?"

John blinked at her and seemed to realize for the first time that she was there, even though he had been responding to her questions. His cheeks turned pink and he released Sherlock hastily, stepping back and clearing his throat. "Right, yes. I'll just - right." He knelt in front of Harry and began untying the rope that was binding her ankles. Whoever had tied her had done a poor job of it. With a little struggling, she likely would've got free on her own. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. The ropes around his ankles had bit deeply into the flesh, and when John had untied them and moved on to the handcuffs he couldn't help shifting impatiently.

"You won't get them off. I've tried," he said. "If you can find me something to pick the lock - I'll do it myself."

"I'll go," said Harry. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head, then cracked her neck with a yawn.. "James should me how to do it, once. I know what I'm looking for." The implied bit of her sentence 'but John wouldn't' made her brother frown as she walked out tugging at her artfully torn tights.

"Seriously, are you okay?" John asked, shaking his head as he turned back to Sherlock. "The message I got from you... it really scared me. Didn't sound like you at all."

"What did it say?"

By way of answer, John took out his phone and extended it so that Sherlock could read the screen.

Joooohn need hlp bern fund ut a sviil

"Like I said, not at all you." There was a very tiny smile tugging at John's lips. He'd teased Sherlock before about how formal Sherlock's texts usually were, with perfect punctuation and spelling and his initials at the end. "I knew something was wrong. It just took me a while to figure out where you were."

"I don't remember sending you that," Sherlock admitted, wondering when he'd had the opportunity to do so. The message wasn't very coherent - though he could have deduced what it meant far more quickly than John had - so it must have been done after he'd been beaten, but before his hands and legs were tied and his possessions taken from him. Sloppy work, but then what else could he expect from uni students?

"No? Well, that's alright. The important thing is that I got it." John exhaled quietly and closed his eyes for a minute. When he looked up again, his expression had turned serious. "Jesus, Sherlock, I think you took a year or two off my life today. I've never been as scared as I was when I thought that something might have happened to you. And Harry," he amended quickly. "To both of you. If I had known that this case was going to be so dangerous, I wouldn't have brought it to your attention."

Sherlock thought about that. About the fact that the case wasn't really a case at all, since it seemed that Harry's friends weren't doing anything more than teenagers out for a good time. Certainly there didn't seem to be anything illegal going on, and Harry was fully aware that her friends had a poor attitude towards life in general - seemed to covet them for it, actually. The case had been a waste of time and an embarrassment, and if Mycroft heard about it Sherlock knew he would be teased mercilessly. This incident would be flung in his face every time he so much as mentioned being a consulting detective, and it had certainly brought into question his acting abilities. Not to mention the injuries he'd suffered that, while minor, would probably take a while to heal.

But he also had to consider, even if he did not want to, all of the days that he and John had spent together in preparation for this moment. The mornings when they had walked to school together, the lunches that they had eaten together (well, John ate and Sherlock read or deduced the other students until John threatened him into eating), the nights that they spent planning. At first every moment together had been for the sake of the case, but gradually Sherlock had begun to hope that John was becoming something more. He couldn't be certain, after all he'd never had one before, but he thought that John might have become his friend. And even if he wasn't, he was close enough that it made everything else seem insignificant.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, surprising both himself and John. "It's all... fine."

\--

_"What's this?"_

_"What - oh. That's, that's nothing. Give it here."_

_"Were you thinking of joining the army, John?"_

_"No. Yes. I don't know."_

_"... Yes, you are. Or you were. But something's happened to change your mind."_

_"Sherlock."_

_"Hmm, you were bored weren't you John? Trapped here with your sister, with your parents, with the endless circle of tedium. I can certainly understand that. But you don't have the funds to leave. You thought the army would be your ticket out, a way that you could go and leave everyone behind and have what you want, but something's changed recently, you feel differently now. What is it?"_

_"_ Sherlock _."_

_"Well the obvious reason is that you're not bored anymore. Something has happened to interest you. Can't be another girlfriend, I'd have heard -"_

_"God you're an infuriating git. Would you just shut up!"_

_"... John?"_

_"I'm... I just, Mycroft was right, Sherlock. What are we doing?"_

_"We're... we're solving a case."_

_"Right. Yes, right. The case."_

_"John? Are you... okay?"_

_"I'm fine._

\--

The house was empty when Sherlock woke up. He wasn't really all that surprised, considering that Mycroft would have gone back to work - he usually only came by once or twice a week - and his parents were abroad. Yet he had harboured hope (foolishly) that John would have stuck around after seeing him home. Harry had refused any contact with her brother once they'd got out of the building, and John hadn't appeared to be all that upset with his sister's anger. But maybe he had gone to try and smooth things over with her.

He climbed out of bed and paused to let the residual dizziness slide away. His ribs ached as he walked towards the loo, the pain flaring up when he took too deep a breath, and in the mirror he could see that his face had not escaped unscathed. In addition to the knot on the back of his head, there was a vivid purple bruise on the lower half of his right cheek that covered most of his jaw. He touched it curiously and huffed at the sharp, deep throb that shot down his neck. He still didn't remember what had happened, but he thought that might have been the first blow.

It was while he was examining his ribs that he heard a door downstairs open, and shortly after a delicious smell began wafting up the stairs. Sherlock came down them gingerly and spotted John in the kitchen standing over a pan of scrambled eggs. He was muttering under his breath and poking at the pan, but he turned around when he heard Sherlock. His blue eyes went wide. "You're up."

"Brilliant, John," Sherlock muttered, easing himself down into a chair. From the looks of it, John had borrowed his card and gone to get some food. He'd done it once before, nearly a week and a half ago now, but hadn't since.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, fetching two plates from the cupboard. He set them both down on the counter and expertly flipped an equal portion of eggs onto each one. It was one of the few things he had a lot of experience with in cooking, and Sherlock knew how good John's eggs could be. His stomach actually growled as John placed one of the plates in front of him. John bit his lip to hide a smile as he sat down with his own plate and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, poking at the eggs.

"Eat your breakfast, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. It hurt to chew, but he managed to get down a few forkfuls. Fortunately the eggs were soft. "How is Harry?"

John looked pleased. "She's good. I spoke to her on the phone while I was at the store. She's... still mad at me." He sighed. "I guess I deserve it. She kept telling me that I'd got the wrong idea about James Moriarty and his group, and that actually they were very nice kids and I shouldn't buy into stereotypes and all that. Said that just because they dressed differently from what I'm used to, I shouldn't think they're breaking the law. I probably didn't call her at the best time. She was trying to call Clara Higgins, and I'm pretty sure Clara hung up on her." He sighed again and forced a smile. 

"You were right to be concerned, John," Sherlock said quietly. Most of his memories had remained fuzzy, frustratingly enough, but he was realizing that what had happened was just too neatly done. There was more to James Moriarty than there appeared to be. Harry didn't realize it, but she was fortunate that John had cared enough to try and find out what was going on. She might have got too deep otherwise. "I'm sure she'll get over it."

"Yeah, she will." John ate a little bit of eggs and then cleared his throat. "And - will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Get over it. Being mad at me, I mean."

"I'm not angry at you."

"If you're not, you should be. I nearly got you killed, Sherlock." John was upset now. His blue eyes were earnest and worried. "I never should have come to you with this case. What I heard about Moriarty - it was wrong of me to get you involved. If they'd hit you just a little bit harder they could have done you some real damage, you know. And god knows how long they would've left you and Harry locked up in that room. You could've starved to death, or died from dehydration before anyone found you. No one uses that building anymore. And -"

"John," Sherlock said, injecting a note of command into his voice. At the same time he kicked John lightly in the shin. John blinked and jumped but he fell silent, and Sherlock continued, "You're being an idiot."

"Sherlock -"

"No, listen to me. I enjoyed the case. I've learned from it." He looked down at the remains of his outfit, the tight jeans and black shirt. The memory of Harry's comments about his acting abilities had stuck clearly with him. He knew he was going to have to devote the next several weeks to learning how to better fit in with people. It would be interesting, at least, while he recuperated to the point where he could accept more cases. "Don't be sorry."

"But you were hurt.”

"The body is only transport, John, you know that. It was worth it." Worth it, Sherlock thought, if only because John Watson was still sitting across the table from him. The easy camaraderie was back, with no sign of the tension that had existed since Mycroft had poked his big nose in. Sherlock fiddled with his fork. "John?"

"What?"

"You're... you're not average."

John went still.

"Mycroft is a bastard," Sherlock told his plate of eggs. He didn't dare look up at John. "He doesn't know what he was talking about." It was the truth. Mycroft couldn't see how different, how unique, John really was. He appeared to be so innocent, so mild-mannered and calm, but he was capable of far more. Sherlock would never forget the image of John Watson breaking a door down with an axe, or the tender, soothing touch of fingers in his hair and on his face seconds later.

For a long time, John didn't say anything. And when he finally moved, he still didn't speak. He stood up, leaned over the table, and kissed Sherlock on the mouth. It lasted for about two seconds, it tasted like scrambled eggs and milk, and John was blushing when he sat down again. Sherlock licked his lips and stared at him in silence as John picked up his fork again. He said, "When you go on your next case, I'd like to be there. To help. Wouldn't want you to have to be rescued again like some damsel in distress."

Sherlock ran his tongue over his bottom lip again and smirked. "You're on."


End file.
